


There You Are

by AyMayZing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Healing, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Tenderness, Visits to Val Royeaux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyMayZing/pseuds/AyMayZing
Summary: A collection of small fics that I've previously posted on my Tumblr. Tags will be updated with every new addition.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fenris/Male Hawke, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Widlflowers (Pavellan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Created for 14DALovers event on Tumblr

Lavellan is always moving.

It was surprising how quickly this observation had become like a law of physics to Dorian. Every object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless compelled to change its state by the action of an external force. For every action in nature there is an equal and opposite reaction. Lavellan is always moving. So obvious, so right.

So even when Dorian could see only the elf’s back, still and unmoving, he knew that his hands were constantly in motion. And he wasn’t wrong.

When he made his way to Lavellan, he was sitting near the edge of the water, cross-legged and a bit hunched in on himself. An assortment of deep purple and orange flowers, a few smaller white ones and some long leaves laid before him, not in a messy pile but organized in a neat line, their stems laying in the water, so they would not dry out. Every few moments Lavellan would pick up a flower or a leaf and add it to the flowery garland he was working on.

When Dorian approached him, he looked up, golden-green eyes meeting his silver. There was no pity in those eyes, no mockery, just concern. Dorian knew he owed him an explanation, an apology for getting him involved in his family drama, for dragging him all the way to Redcliffe, for the way he behaved after he left the inn after speaking with his father. He yelled at Lavellan then and stomped away, needing some space and time to think and having difficulty articulating it properly. But Dorian was so exhausted and he couldn’t stand to think of today even for a moment longer. He needed a distraction. Something to occupy him, so he wouldn’t just break here and there. He sat down next to Lavellan, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees, looking at the water, which was now just as orange as the sky above them. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the quiet sounds of the nearby waterfall. Lavellan looked back to the flowery garland he hadn't stopped weaving.

It drew Dorian’s attention and he watched the elf’s quick finger work. He would pick up a flower, wrap it around the stems of those he was holding, adding more and more flowers and leaves.

“What is it that you’re doing?” Dorian asked after a moment. His voice was weak and raspy from all the crying he did after seeing his father. He cleared his throat, Lavellan however didn’t seem to notice or care. He shrugged, his eyes trained on the flowers.

“A flower crown? A garland to decorate the camp with? Depends how soon I’ll have to finish,” he said simply.

“Why are you weaving flower crowns, Inquisitor?” Dorian wondered, touching the plants laying nearby, trying to not sound accusatory or deprecatory, just curious. Lavellan smiled at that, looking up into Dorian’s face.

“I prefer to keep my hands busy. You haven’t noticed?”

“No, I have. You’re always playing with your lockpicks or taking apart… I don’t even know what those are? Locks? Small dwarven machinery? But why flower crowns?”

“Because they’re pretty. It's as simple as that. Picking flowers and making color arrangements helps me clear my head. My aunt taught me how. It’s calming. Soothing. It’s the same move over and over again but you’re still considering what you’re doing with the flowers, where and how to put them, so you gotta stay focused on this one, small task. I like it.”

Dorian nodded, his gaze landing on the flowers laid out in a neat line.

“What flowers are those? I’m not a specialist in nature.” There was an attempt at a joke somewhere there but it didn’t exactly sound out. Still, Lavellan’s smile grew.

“Yes, I know. You mention it every time your boots hit the grass,” he mocked lightly, his smile friendly and joyous. “The orange ones are calendulas. We have them in the Free Marches, too. In my clan we use them to make medicine for rashes and cramps. The leaves are just some simple weeds, I don’t think any scholar ever gave them a name. And the rest? I don’t know. Some wildflowers native to the area. I simply liked the colors.”

He liked the colors. The Inquisitor liked the colors of some wildflowers and picked them up, then sat down and started weaving a flower crown as if the world wasn’t in dire danger and Dorian’s personal life wasn’t a flaming hot mess. It was ridiculous and so endearing Dorian’s chest seized, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I like the colors too,” he whispered softly, his eyes trained on Lavellan’s fingers.

“Grab two flowers, Dorian. I’ll teach you how to make a flower crown,” the elf said, his tone cheery but decisive.

“What?” Dorian managed out, taken aback. Lavellan was looking at him with a grin.

“Grab two flowers, I’ll show you how to make those,” he repeated. Dorian watched him for a moment in surprise but he relented - he was looking for a distraction, wasn’t he? And learning something new was always a good idea, even if he didn’t think the knowledge on how to make a flower crown was particularly useful. Dorian grabbed two flowers, one purple with a long, strong stem, and one orange, a bit smaller. Lavellan moved closer to him and began showing him how to do it.

Hold the flower with the long stem horizontally. Put the other one over it. Tie the stem of the second flower around the other one, like this. Try to tighten it delicately, without breaking the stem. Add another one, closer to the first one. Diversify with those small white ones and those weeds. Yes, just like that. No, that’s- And there goes that flower. No worries, we can always get more. Keep adding them and then we’ll tie the ends when it’ll be long enough.

Dorian’s flower crown ended up thin and wonky, consisting of more stems than flowers and did not hold a candle to Lavellan’s wide flower crown, its build firm, its color scheme beautiful. But Dorian didn’t care. It was, surprisingly to him, a lot of fun and it got his mind off his father, Tevinter, blood magic. Watching Lavellan work on his own garland was even more relaxing - the elf’s lithe fingers moved with a methodical precision but gracefully, quickly but carefully. He sometimes hesitated over which flower he should pick up, his face focused, yet serene and Dorian caught himself staring at his profile time and time again, something forming in his chest, something he did not want to address.

It became harder to ignore when Lavellan put his beautiful flower crown on Dorian’s head.

“Ha! It fits! And those colors look good on you,” he said triumphantly, his eyes searching Dorian’s face, his smile big, his eyes sparkling with joy and awe. Dorian felt himself flush, reaching up to touch the flowers on his head, averting his gaze.

“There aren’t many colors that don’t look good on me,” he spoke up after a moment but he didn’t sound as confident as he’d wished. Lavellan huffed out a laugh.

“Bright yellow being one of the few exceptions, yes?”

“I see what you’re doing here and it’s not going to work. I will not put on anything made from plaidweave, even to prove a point.”

“You’re no fun.”


	2. A Tender Caress (Fenhawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Created for 14DALovers event on Tumblr

“Normally you’re stoic like a stone but the moment someone has to patch you up, you’re twitching _constantly_.”

Hawke wasn’t angry because he was never truly angry at anyone, maybe only at himself. He was just slightly exasperated, looking at the white-haired elf with worry as he took a step back. Fenris groaned, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what’s going on, apologies. I just do that,” he tried explaining, growing annoyed at himself. Hawke just wanted to help. Hawke was caring and tender and always made sure Fenris was fine with everything he was doing, calmly explaining what it was and why. Fenris knew all that and yet the first few minutes were always a struggle to him, a struggle to let him touch him, a struggle to trust him, even though by now Fenris trusted Hawke with his life and would follow him anywhere, into the Deep Roads or back to Tevinter if he so desired.

But something changed lately. Fenris was still always twitching in his seat when Hawke tried to heal him but the struggle was different, in a way that Fenris couldn’t quite name. It was not that he didn’t want to let Hawke near him, since he didn’t mind the mage being close. Frankly, he was the only person Fenris let walk up to him closer than at an arm’s reach, who he didn’t mind being pressed up against when their whole gang crowded around a table in the Hanged Man to play Wicked Grace.

It was not the fact that Hawke was a mage, because Hawke was an exceptional mage. Fenris still didn’t trust most of those gifted with magic but if Hawke could be so careful and responsible and wonderful, then maybe not all of them were as bad as he thought. He got used to Hawke’s magic, to his hair pricking at the back of his neck when he was summoning lightning, to the lull of gravity when he messed with it, the soft, warm hum of it on his skin, in his bones and muscles when Hawke healed him.

It was also not the fact that he didn’t want Hawke touching him, because Hawke’s hands were big but not clumsy, warm and calloused in a way that got Fenris to think of the feel of them on him even after they separated for the day.

But then, what was it that set Fenris on edge when Hawke got close? What caused his breath to hitch in his throat, his pulse to quicken, his senses to sharpen, for him to become so aware of his body and his moves in a way that nothing else did?

“It’s alright. Would you rather I stitched it up without magic?” Hawke asked, his tone calm, his golden gaze soft, pulling Fenris back from that spiral of thoughts. The elf shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s try this again, I’ll do my best not to move too much,” Fenris answered, straightening his back and taking in a deep breath. Hawke looked him over, seemingly assessing how uncomfortable the elf was but after a moment he sighed, walking up closer and kneeling behind Fenris.

There it was again. The quick pulse, the rigidness of his muscles. Fenris bit his lip, trying to stay calm and focused.

“I’ll clear the wound with some salicylic alcohol and gauze, then I’ll put my hand over it and use magic, yeah?” Hawke said, his voice soft. Fenris nodded, clasping his hands together. After a moment he felt liquid being poured on his lower back where a slaver slashed him earlier that day. It was a small, cold stream that didn’t help Fenris ease up but it wasn’t unpleasant. A gauze was pressed just below the thin wound, so the alcohol wouldn’t run down his back to his pants. Hawke then put the bottle away and pressed the gauze over the wound, drying it out.

“Alright, now the hard part,” Hawke warned him before putting his hand over the wound. Fenris’s breath hitched in his throat, fingers tightened but he didn’t say anything and didn’t pull back. He felt a tingle of magic, then it grew into a soft hum he felt deep in his muscles. The skin began regenerating, growing back over the wound quickly, in a way that was unpleasant but easy to handle. Hawke’s warm hand moved over the wound, slowly and tenderly and in the weirdest sensation Fenris felt his touch all over his body as if it was electricity, travelling through his nerves from his back to his shoulder, his arm, his neck. It was fascinating and exciting and terrifying in a way that made Fenris want to pull back and lean in at the same moment, his head spinning.

Hawke was done with the healing spell sooner than Fenris expected and he ran his calloused fingers over the sensitive skin where the wound was just a few moments ago. The touch was soft and caring and so tender, in a way that Fenris didn’t experience before meeting Hawke and he was desperate for more, wondering how it would feel on his arms, his chest, his neck, in his hair.

“Won’t leave a scar,” Hawke spoke up, pulling his hand back, leaving Fenris confused and disappointed. “Sorry it took so long, I’m running low on mana. Hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable,” he added sheepishly. He stood up and walked to face Fenris, keeping distance between them. Fenris grabbed his shirt that laid on the floor near him and pulled it over his head quickly.

“It’s fine, it’s… I don’t mind when you touch me,” he whispered, unsure himself of the meaning of those words. He didn’t look at Hawke but to the side, his hair falling into his eyes. He couldn’t look up at him, something was holding him back from doing that.

“Oh, then I’m… I’m glad,” Hawke said after a moment, his tone odd. “I gotta be going, you’ll be fine?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see ya tomorrow then.” And then he was no longer in the room with Fenris but he could swear his warm hands were still on his back, tenderly caressing his skin.


	3. Candle Light (Solavellan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Created for 14DALovers event on Tumblr  
> Lana Lavellan is [oxygenforthewicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxygenforthewicked/pseuds/oxygenforthewicked)'s Inquisitor

Even though there were dozens of scholars in Skyhold, it was the two eccentric mages, Solas and Dorian, that became the Inquisition’s most notorious academics. Both of them were stuck in the rotunda most of the time, usually buried nose-deep in papers and books, scribbling furiously. It was not surprising anymore to see either of them (or even both at the same time) in the library in the middle of the night, ink on their hands and faces. Often when they were in a mood, someone (usually one of the Lavellan siblings) had to bring them food so they would eat _something_.

That is the norm and no one bats an eye at that. What is not the norm is the Inquisitor herself sitting in the library well into the night, hunched over one of the tables, quill in her hand as she writes long equations and explanations. Five opened books lay before her, a few loose pages pushed to the side, balls of crumbled paper at her feet.

The table is illuminated only by one candle, already more than halfway melted. Elves may need less light than humans, but this is still not enough to be healthy for Lana’s eyesight. When Solas entered the rotunda through a door on the the third floor and spotted her, his first thought was to go up to her and point it out but then she huffed out something, brushing back the dark curls from her face and something in Solas’ chest seized, freezing him in place.

The candle light makes Lana’s features sharper, more pronounced - the full lips, the small dimple between her upper lip and her nose, the sharp line of her jaw, the slightly pointed chin. The shadows on her face dance along with the flame, making it look like her tattoos are moving, the branches of Mythal’s _vallaslin_ growing quickly before disappearing, swallowed by darkness. Her dark brown hair is tied at the back of her head in a messy bun, clearly not for the looks but for convenience. The bun started falling apart, however, and now long, thick strands of hair are falling onto her slender shoulders, framing her face in a way that is far too perfect to be accidental. 

Or that’s what Solas would think if it was anyone other than Lana, because Lana always looks so beautiful, so perfect yet natural and effortless. She never seems to know just how stunning she is, how she makes his pulse quicken, his sharp mind fog whenever she so much as smiles at him. And even now, when she’s not looking at him, when she doesn’t even know he's there, watching her like she’s the most beautiful thing in Thedas, the candle light dancing across her face, she’s doing something to him, something he doesn’t want to name, _can’t_ name.

With his heart beating hard and fast in his chest, Solas makes his way down to the library and towards her. She hears him approach and raises her head, her green eyes sparkling in the candle light. She smiles when she spots it’s him, her eyes softening. 

“Solas,” she says, watching him as he stops on the other side of her table.

“Inquisitor,” he answers, a smile he can’t hold back blooming on his lips. “What are you doing in the library at this hour?”

Lana looks confused for a moment, looking to the side as if in search of a clock.

“Oh? And what hours is it?”

“About an hour to sunrise,” he says and her eyes go wide, cheeks flushing light pink.

“It seems I’ve lost track of time…” Her smile turns sheepish, a hand rubbing at her neck. “I came here in the evening to look up one thing and that gave me an idea. One thing led to another…”

“Yes, I know the feeling,” he replies through a chuckle. “Maybe you should go get some rest now? You can return to your work - well, tomorrow is the wrong word here. Today, in a few hours.”

“Yes…” Lana says, looking down at the page completely covered in her handwriting and not making a move to stand up. She looks up at him and grins.

“Or you could sit down with me and help me? We can finish it faster together.”

Solas shouldn’t and he knows that but the rational part of him has trouble reaching his heart, because his mind is filled with a haze, a fog as his eyes catch on Lana’s dark hair brushing against her pink lips, the color of her green eyes, made once brighter and once darker by the candle light playing tricks on him. So he sits down and reaches for the paper, his fingers brushing against hers as she hands it to him and his mind fogs even more.


	4. Take My Hand (Zevwarden)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Created for the 14DALovers event on Tumblr  
> Gigi Tabris is [@pauvre-lola](https://pauvre-lola.tumblr.com/)'s Warden

Gigi stood in one of Val Royeaux's many plazas, which was almost completely filled with merchant stands. Dwarves, humans and elves praised their goods in hopes of attracting clients, bargained over prices or gossiped with friends. It was a summer afternoon, closer to evening than noon, but the sun was bright and warm on her skin, the air heavy. There were still so many people swarming in the plaza, chatting happily as they browsed the stands in search of something they needed or simply liked.

Gigi was doing the same, though she wasn’t chatting with anyone, since she and Zevran had separated a while back, each of them wanting to get something else. Gigi had already gotten what she wanted - she went to the small _pâtisserie_ that drew her attention earlier and bought all the sweets that seemed tasty or interesting - small cookies covered in chocolate, round almond cakes, some sort of gooey Nevarran jellies covered in powdered sugar, a few pieces of coffee-infused cake. She spent quite the money but it was her free afternoon and she wanted to treat herself.

On her way towards the statue under which she and Zev were supposed to meet, she came onto the plaza and, curious, walked between the stands, looking over the laid out goods. There was everything there - from fruits and street food, through jewellery and porcelain, to swords and daggers. Not very good daggers, but still. It was impressive. It reminded her of the Denerim Market but everything seemed bigger and more polished than back home. She also got less dirty looks here - an elf in a gilded mask and fine clothing was assumed to be some noble’s servant, not a thief.

Her attention was drawn to a jewellery stand, the beautiful, long necklaces there and she started making her way towards it, when Zevran appeared before her, his cheeks flushed, a cheeky smile on his lips.

“ _Mi amor,_ we have to go,” he said, his voice cheery but hurried. Gigi raised an eyebrow at him, confused.

“Zev, what is--?”

“Oi, rabbit! Stop right there!”

Gigi turned to look at the person who yelled and spotted a guard, his eyes trained on Zevran as he made his way towards them between the stands. Confused but not surprised, Gigi looked back at Zev, who held out his hand.

“Take my hand.”

She did and he grinned at her wildly before turning around. He started running, dragging Gigi after himself. She gripped the bag with pastries tighter and tried to keep up with Zevran as he led her between the stands, guards yelling behind them.

They quickly left the plaza behind them and ran onto a nearby busy street, bumping into bystanders, pushing people away if they got in the way. Outraged Orlesians huffed and yelled at them but they didn’t care, quickly leaving them all behind.

Zevran took a hard turn to the left then stopped abruptly. Gigi didn’t manage to stop in time and collided with his back, letting out an ‘oomph!’. She leaned to the side, sticking her head out over his shoulder and spotted a guard standing in the street in front of them. He gave them a look just dripping with suspicion.

“Oops, wrong way!” Zevran said, smiling brightly at the guard. He turned and aimed for another street, dragging Gigi behind him. She sent the guard one last look, a bright, toothy smile on her face.

“Wait… Hey, wait!” He called, realizing something was amiss but they were already running away.

Gigi couldn’t help giggling that bubbled out of her chest. It was just so surreal and so _fun._ She and Zev were running through the streets of Val Royeaux, sun on their skin, breeze in their hair. It was as if she were a normal person again, not the Hero of Ferelden, not the Warden Commander, just Gigi, escaping from some guards and having the time of her life.

Zevran led her onto a stone bridge over an azure canal. She got a good look of Val Royeaux from here - yellow and white brick houses, red roofs, the occasional Chantry with small, soaring bell towers, canals cutting through the streets, green spots of gardens here and there. The air here was cooler here than in the narrow streets, crisp from the water, the sun no longer limited by the walls and roofs. Gigi tightened her grip on Zevran’s hand and breathed in deeply, taking it all in. She threw her head back, laughing loudly and Zev turned his head towards her, chuckling as well, his golden eyes sparkling, blonde hair falling into his face.

They left the bridge and took a right turn, ran down a long, wide street and then took another right turn, through a cast iron gate and into a sprawling garden full of trees and flowers, everything in bloom, colorful and fragrant. They stopped under a big tree, its branches heavy with yellow flowers.

“I think we’re safe now,” Zevran breathed out, leaning against the tree with one hand, the other still clasped with Gigi’s. He sent her a big smile and she laughed again.

“What happened there, Zev?”

“Ah, _mi amor,_ I just wanted to buy some wine and the awful merchant wouldn’t sell it to me, even after I waved a bulky money bag in front of his face. Said he only sells to humans from Orlais. He deserved a little shake down, yes?” He smirked and so did Gigi.

“Of course he did. And did you take that wine?”

“Naturally, my dear. A fine vintage - only the best for you.” He pulled out a bottle of wine out of a bag thrown over his shoulder. “Did you get the pastries?”

“Hopefully they didn’t suffer much during our escape!” Gigi answered, peeking into the bag. Thankfully, everything seemed to be in order. They sat down in the soft grass, under the tree's shadow. Gigi laid out the pastries and Zevran opened the bottle and they sat there for hours, sampling their buys and talking. No guards found them there.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@aymayzing](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aymayzing)


End file.
